When The Magic Happens

“How often I have tried to tell writing students that the first thing a writer must do is love the reader and wish the reader well. The writer must trust the reader to be at least as intelligent as he is. Only in such well wishing and trust, only when the writer feels he is writing a letter to a good friend, only then will the magic happen.”
From
Falling Through Space:
The Journals of Ellen Gilchrist

Inside the front cover of this book is a note I wrote to myself December 15, 1987. I wished myself Merry Christmas, the book being a Christmas present to myself. Those were years of living deep in the country in the mountains of Virginia where I was raising my 3 young children and in love with Ellen Gilchrist, reading everything she wrote, especially loving her non-fiction writing about writing, but her novels and short stories were among my favorites. When I met her at a writer’s conference I was so star-struck I could barely speak. I had dressed in my loveliest outfit, the blouse being an emerald green silk Poet’s Blouse with a softly ruffled neck and ruffles at the wrists. I felt so pretty but before the conference began I spilled coffee on my blouse. I was horrified. I rushed in the bathroom and was clumsily trying to clean my blouse with a wet paper towel when a soft voice behind me said, “Here, let me help you honey.” The woman reached for my blouse and began blotting it with a wet paper towel. As I looked up to say thank you I was looking straight into the eyes of Ellen Gilchrist. I nearly fainted. She autographed my copy of this book which I had with me and what happened the rest of the day I have no idea. I floated through the day in a fog.

Since then I have read and reread this book but not for many years. That it survived my fire felt like a sign when I pulled it out and sat down with it today and came across this quote. I have been trying to figure out just exactly what all this blogging is about. And I realized that it was when I am able to write the posts that really feel like I am writing a letter to a friend, to you dear reader, that the magic happens. When I write a post — and I never know just when this sort of magic will happen — and it elicits a lot of comments, and I write back, I answer people always, there is that exquisite exchange, that communion. And sometimes the commenters who have gotten to know one another a little because they see each other here often, write to one another. And a number of these frequent commenters are now in my Sunday Night Writing Group. A community has been growing, building. Beethoven once wrote to a woman he was in love with, “I write you letters by the thousands in my mind.” So, too, dear reader, do I write to you. I write many more blog posts than ever show up here, and there are notes, quotes, and flashing thoughts stored in notebooks everywhere. There is so much I want to say and so little time to say it all.

And then there are the blog posts I write that never see the light of day because after I write them I know that I cannot or should not publish them. Some I just needed to write for me, for catharsis. And that’s okay too. This morning I started one that was so profoundly dark and sad it nearly choked me. It ended up being funneled into a short story. I started out with the line, which was the title of the post as I had begun to write it, “I have been waylaid by grief…” It was that kind of morning. I wrote it. It’s done. It will never been seen here. But writing it had it’s purpose. And this is what I tell my writing students. Use the writing. When things come up write about it. In class we write, and we read the writing. It stands alone. No additional comments can be made. No critiquing. It all has to stay in the writing. I don’t let people chat. We go very very deep in the writing but it is a writing class not a support group. If something comes up for you when you are writing, or even when you hear what someone else wrote, you don’t say anything about it, you’re not allowed to. Go on after class and write about it. Writing does writing. The magic is in the writing. There is a kind of alchemy there. So today I wrote that post. And then the story. And it is done, finished, processed, and now I move forward.

Lastly I paged through the whole book Falling Through Space. I got to the very last paragraph and something in me exploded, woke up, an answer came. Ellen Gilchrist wrote:

“Lastly, I would like to read you two lines from Eudora Welty’s wonderful, outrageous book, The Robber Bridegroom. It takes place on the Natchez Trace and concerns a number of characters, including the infamous bandits, Little Harp and Big Harp. ‘Little Harp hated to see anything penned up. Anything he saw penned up he would turn loose, himself included.’ And so, in the spirit of Little Harp, I turn you loose to do anything you want to do and be anything you want to be, as long as you don’t hurt anybody, and promise to read some books. Go in peace then, and remember, I am your friend.”

And in the moment I woke up to the fact that I have not been waylaid by grief but had been keeping myself penned up by old beliefs about what my life should have been, as well as constantly punishing myself for all of my wrongdoings, perceived, imagined, or real. I am ready to turn myself loose. Frankly I’m tired of this shit. Suffering hurts too damned bad.

And I am your friend. Remember that. I will write you more letters in the time to come, and when you take time to answer me here you make my heart explode with happiness. I want you to know that. And I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

And in this moment the orchid vase has been smashed to smithereens Katya. I am moving on.